


Doing It Right

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: April Showers Challenge, Established Relationship, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-25
Updated: 2007-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's heavy. It's Blair's gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing It Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JaneDavitt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDavitt/gifts).



> ...who likes protective Blair.

It's heavy. That's the first thing you realize when you pick up one of these things. It's not like the squirt gun you played with when you were a kid—not that I did; no way would Naomi let me even touch such an obvious tool of the military propaganda machine. But this is no toy—it's heavy as hell. Hard to hold steady at arm's length. Takes real effort.

The next thing you notice is the coiled, oily black power of the thing. It is potential energy incarnate—death waiting to happen. Feels like the damned thing will bite you if you take your eye off of it for a second.

It's so terrifyingly obvious, when you heft the cold, unexpected weight of it, that its purpose is to kill people. Make them bleed. Stop their hearts from beating. That is its only real purpose.

I've had to hold one a bunch of times, once even fired a submachine gun when we were trapped on an island with a drug gang. But this is the first time the gun I'm holding is mine. Mine to carry, mine to use (please not any time soon.)

Jim is sitting at the kitchen table and looking across at me expectantly. He's about to teach me how to clean my weapon. His own, a SIG Sauer, is sitting on a matching towel in front of him, the barrel pointed away from us.

He opens his mouth and starts talking about safe practices—checking to make sure the chamber isn't holding a round even if the clip is out, keeping the safety on regardless. Then he starts pointing and rat-a-tatting component names—bore, bolt, receiver—and I'm storing it all like I used to do with class lectures, but the whole time I'm looking at his hands, at the way his fingers are moving—lovingly, almost sensuously—on the diamond-patterned grip.

He starts taking it apart, showing me the steps. His voice is soft, patient. The process is slightly different for my Beretta, but he walks me through it. He pulls out a couple of soft rags, tosses me one, and puts some solvent on his before starting to clean the bore. There's this frown of concentration on his face, an intent look that itches hard at my memory. I look down at his hands again, at the way he's cradling his gun, and then up at his face, and I get it.

He looked just like that the first time he held my cock in his hands. His face had the same, incredibly intense focus, as if it getting it right were imperative—a matter of life or death.

And this is. It is. I shake my head and get to work mirroring his actions, because this is no lecture hall, and I'm not on the outside anymore, observing.

This is my gun. It's heavy, but I need the weight. I need every ounce of its power if I'm going to use it, if I'm going to protect him.

I'm going to use it to protect Jim.

And that's the most important thing in this world.

  
....................  
2007.06.25


End file.
